Hello, something a little different.

Hello everyone.

This is not necessarily a blog.  Well, it is not following the bipolar theme.  It is something that I have written having joined a writing group at the local library.  I have been that heartened by your comments on my writing ability that I thought maybe I ought to try harder!  I had my first session, which was a total disaster.  I came armed with a piece of writing when we were only required to prepare some verbal banter.  I ended up reading mine, which was far too deep and far too revealing and you could have heard a pin drop.  Never mind, I dusted myself off and the next brief, which I hope I have followed, is to write a 'ghost story' since Halloween is coming up.  We were told that we could write anything; an entire novel, a short story, flash fiction (I had to clarify what that meant and the lady leading the group said 500 words but I have since researched it and there is some movement), a children's story, or even something non-fiction.

Talking to Paul Mitchell on Facebook he said that the best critics I ever had were my Blog followers.  So, on that basis, I thought I would get some pre-library feedback.  I opted for flash fiction.  If nothing else, I would love to know who you identify as the ghost, if anyone.  Thank you!!!!!!

Megan carefully applied lipstick, then blotted and smudged it.  She didn’t want to wear her expectation so evidently.  But on checking her reflection she decided against the casual look and reapplied it carefully adding a little eyeliner and the smallest bit of perfume.  He loved her smell.

She didn’t want it to look as though she had been waiting all day, just for this, that she had wasted a glorious sunny day and an invitation to a BBQ.  But the few words on her mobile’s display made it all worthwhile.  ‘I can get away.  Meet me at the station at 7:00.’  She knew well enough not to reply.  They always met there; it was equidistant from his home and hers.  It was usually a lot later, the dogs in tow.  Perhaps half term had something to do with it.

As she hurried to the station she wished that she could arrive late, just once.   Let him feel what it might be like but that was game playing, something she’d vowed never to do.  The station was unexpectedly busy as she edged her way towards their seat.  She checked her watch.  She was five minutes early and didn’t notice his approach, rather, felt a presence, too preoccupied with her thoughts.  Perhaps she heard the rustle of the paper bag he clasped, or smelt his age.  She moved, fractionally, distancing herself, deliberately building a wall between them.  Still, he didn’t seem to notice, fingering the brown paper.  He was close enough for her to hear the click as he rolled a boiled sweet around his mouth.  She checked her phone, again, and re-read the message. 

‘Going anywhere special?’ he asked; his voice thin with age.  ‘Not really,’ she answered, ‘just waiting.’  ‘Ah,’ he said, nodding.  ‘Someone special?’ It was more of a statement than a question.  ‘Very,’ she said, glancing up at the station clock, ten minutes having past.  ‘I’m waiting too,’ he said.  ‘It’s become something of a habit,’ he said, letting out a sound that could have been a chuckle.  She turned just enough to see him better, not to encourage, but he continued anyway.  ‘This is where we met.  It was quite by chance.  I was running to catch the train and literally bumped into her.  Love at first sight, they call it.  We were married within a year.  People said it would never last.  That was 1923’.  He straightened, slightly.

She checked the station clock again, as well as her watch then read the message once more.  ‘I’ve not seen you before,’ he added, she felt his gaze.  ‘Funny that; a pretty thing like you.  I suppose my family’s right, I need to start living again, noticing things.  It’s hard,’ his voice faltered. 

‘You see, Lily was here again.  Just the once, so far, bold as brass. I recognised her straight away.  She wasn’t sick or frail, not young or old, just herself.  I was waiting to catch the train into town.  She walked right up to me and said, ‘Give us a mint Sailor Boy.’  That’s how I knew for certain, only she called me Sailor Boy.  Mint humbugs, her favourite, took one, popped it in her mouth. But that was it, never again,’ he said, drawing in a shuddering sigh.  ‘I come every day, worried that I’ll miss her. You must think me daft, my family do.  Waiting for someone who’s never going to come’ he said, standing.  ‘I’m glad we met,’ he smiled, then shuffled in the direction of the exit.

Megan checked the clock once more, then her watch and phone.  She composed a text, ‘Where the hell are you?’ then deleted it and walked home.